


Don't Leave Me Alone

by Iskanlofen



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depressed Booker | Sebastien le Livre, F/F, F/M, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Death (but they come back), Mentions of Rape, Multi, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:14:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 4,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26346199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iskanlofen/pseuds/Iskanlofen
Summary: Booker chose to live his exile in Paris. Everything there reminds him of his past.Snippets of Booker's life, from his childhood to his reunion with the Old Guard.There is a lot of angst and hurt at the beginning. It gets better by the end.The events deviate a bit from canon, but the overall timeline remains the same.
Relationships: Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolo di Genova, Minor Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko - Relationship, Minor Booker | Sebastien le Livre/OC
Comments: 4
Kudos: 49





	1. 1791, Pembrai-sur-Loire

The metro station was bumbling with activity in that early morning. Paris was waking up. Booker watched as streams of people poured into the streets. They were running, running fast, so fast, buzzing around him like a swarm of bees.  
For them, it was a fresh, early Tuesday morning. For him, it was still a late Monday evening. 

The loud screech of an incoming metro resonated under his skull. He grimaced, managing to focus long enough to discern the number on the incoming metro.  
He tumbled into the coach and let himself fall onto a suddenly empty seat, nursing his half-empty bottle of cheap wine. Disdainful looks were thrown his way. He returned the glares, knowing that he didn't look half as threatening has he wanted. It was fine. They turned away anyways.

The metro rumbled to life, rocking its passengers from left to right and right to left. Booker closed his eyes with a small smile. His mother must have rocked him thus, a very long time ago. He couldn't remember it anyways. But he remembered her beautiful figure, her bright blonde hair, like a princess in a fairytale. 

They said memories of a loved one's face would fade with time, but not his mother's, never his mother's. He would always remember her sad smile and her unfocused eyes when he would pick her up from the graveyard every evening. She would hug him, and call him her dear Rémi, and eat whatever he cooked, and put him to bed, and sing him a lullaby, and wish him a "Good night, Rémi dear."  
It was a tender madness, the priest had said.

He still preferred that madness to his father's. The former count did call him by his name, Sébastien, but it was without a shred of love.  
After Rémi had passed, after he had lost his heir, he had closed off his heart. And despite his best efforts, Booker had never been able to fill the Rémi-shaped hole his brother had left in it. His body still carried the scars of his many attempts. How was he supposed to compete against their father's heir, the strong, healthy, easygoing boy who could make friends wherever he went?  
He was the complete opposite, a scrawny, sick, small, child who preferred the church's silence, and was originally destined for the cloth.

The priest who had been tutoring him had pitied him.  
"An unlucky hair color you have, my boy." he had sighed tiredly.  
His five-year-old self had taken that at face value, thinking that his darker, brown hair could not compare against his family's bright blonde locks. He had only realized the full meaning of those words centuries later, when he had learnt about genetics.

Booker looked around in the crowded metro. He saw a small head of blonde jumping in the arms of auburn. Red wrenching a toy form the chubby fingers of black. White kissing purple…  
If the priest could see what he was seeing, what would he have said? He laughed loudly, and salt-and-pepper next to him shuffled further away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deviations from canon:
> 
>   * Booker's family background was completely invented for this story.
>   * Booker's big brother, Rémi, is also a complete invention.
>   * The village of Pembrai-sur-Loire does not exist. In this story, it is located in the north-west of France, somewhere along the river Loire.
> 

> 
> Historical / scientific notes:
> 
>   * This chapter takes place in 1791, two years after the French Révolution. The king has attempted to escape France but was caught, causing a large distrust towards the monarchy and the nobility. Some small nobles (like Booker's father) managed to escape the witch hunt that ensued by either fleeing abroad or changing their names to pass as commoners.
>   * In genetics, blonde hair is a recessive trait. This means that two blonde parents cannot give birth to a non-blonde child.
> 



	2. 1801, Paris, Faubourg Saint-Marcel

The crowd dragged Booker along as it got off at the station, gently pushing him towards the wall as it exited the platform. Fighting through the headache that was hogging his mind, he took a moment to locate his surroundings.  
Another sip of wine cleared his vision long enough to read the name of the station: Les Gobelins.

The headache came back harder and Booker slowly ambled along the wall to reach the exit. The people around him were giving him a wide berth. He shrugged. More fresh air for him then. 

He remembered the first time he had been in that part of Paris. He had been fifteen, lost, cold, and hungry. The waves of the Révolution had finally reached their remote village, and even fallen, his family still carried blue blood.  
Lost in her delusions, her mother had died peacefully, not even aware of what was happening. He had heard his father's cries echo through the woods, as he fled as quickly as he could. His only belonging had been a small Bible the priest had given him as he had ushered him away under the cover of night.

He had bounced from village to village. The winter was harsh and no one could take on an extra mouth to feed. He had arrived in Paris hungry but with high hopes and a new name. Sébastien de Pertuis became Sébastien Lelivre, ready to work hard to make an honest living in the big city.

He had killed his first man on that same day.

Monsieur Monier had not been not a notorious criminal. His name had not been passed down in History, but in his time, every last bit of Paris' underground society had been connected to him in one way or the other. So when Booker had stumbled upon him opening the throat of a rich merchant, he had had no other choice but to join him. 

"I can read. I can write. I can count." he had cried out, fearful, as the man's goons had crowded him into a corner.  
He didn't know what Monsieur Monier had seen in him in that instant, but his eyes had lightened up and he had been welcomed in his circle. 

The rite of passage? A knife drenched in red, the starch reminder that "If you go to the constable, you'll fall too. Remember, you're a murderer now."  
Booker would forever remember the bloodshot eyes of a handsome redhead whose life spurted out of his slashed neck. He had thrown up right on the spot.

Booker lifted his head out of the trash can. Around him, the passersby were giving him an even larger berth than before. He huffed. What? He had at least found a trash can instead of doing in his business on the floor! He washed down the foul taste with another swig of wine and kept walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deviations from canon:
> 
>   * The entire chapter is invented.
> 

> 
> Historical / scientific notes:
> 
>   * Before Haussmann's renovation of Paris in the 19th century, the Faubourg Saint-Marcel was the poorest quarter of Paris. Nowadays, it is one of the most expensive quarters to live in.
> 



	3. 1801 - 1811, Paris, Faubourg Saint-Marcel

There was a map of Faubourg Saint-Marcel in the station. Booker kept looking at the straight lines formed by the large avenues. There was an almost artistic beauty in their design. Still, Booker preferred the small, sinuous alleyways he had known a lifetime ago. The entire layout had changed. Monsieur Monier's house didn't exist anymore. There was a pinch in his heart at the bittersweet memories of that time. 

Surprisingly, working for Monsieur Monier had been much safer than having an honest job. Booker had been tucked away in the underground, far from the eyes of that so-called Justice that liked to pop heads off of their shoulders at the slightest sign of dissidence.

He had learnt a lot in his ten years with Monsieur Monier. Starting from falsifying accounts and deeds, to forging seals, paintings, and gemstones. Monsieur Monier hadn't spared any expense for him to learn. And Booker soaked that knowledge up like a dry sponge. There was an Art in his trade. A thrill in creating things good enough to fool even the eyes of their creators. 

Booker had also been sent out on occasional missions, when Monsieur Monier had need for a lost little boy to lure in his soft-hearted targets. He had told Booker that even that at fifteen, he looked more like a thirteen-year old, small, and soft, and still a bit round in the face. Booker had promptly added acting in his growing list of skills. 

He had felt guilty the first time, to abuse the kindness of his first mark, the elderly governess of an old noble family. Her terrified expression when Monsieur Monier's men had stormed her home and dragged her out joined Booker's growing collection of faces that would haunt him forever.

The face of his second mark would also join that collection. He would always remember the madness in his eyes, the lust seeping through his pores, and his heavy breaths as he pinned him to the bed. Monsieur Monier's arrival had been a boon. He had consoled him, held him tight as his men rained a fury of blows onto the mark.  
Later that night, Monsieur Monier had shown him that the pain and fear could be replaced by pleasure and tenderness.

The next day, Booker had put all of his heart in the splitting and shaping of an enormous deep blue diamond into two smaller ones. He had never been so proud.

What an idiot he had been.

Booker startled at the sight of a small teenager trying to get past him to see the map. He apologized and moved to the side. She looked at him and her expression morphed into one of distrust, with a hint of disgust.   
"It's okay, I'm fine." he said.  
She was already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deviations from canon:
> 
>   * Booker was a forger in the past. The rest of the chapter is invented.
> 

> 
> Historical / scientific notes:
> 
>   * 1801 - 1811 overlaps with the end of the post-Révolution regimes and the first French Empire under Napoleon I. Although the formation of the Empire has brought some stability to France, there is still some underlying unrest, especially with the war politics of the Emperor.
>   * The French Blue was an exceptionally large blue diamond belonging to the French crown. It disappeared during the Révolution. A few decades later, a slightly smaller blue diamond called the Hope diamond appeared in the UK. The Hope diamond is believed to have been cut from the French Blue.
> 



	4. 1811, Paris, Faubourg Saint-Marcel

Booker stopped dead in his tracks as he caught a glimpse of an ad plastered on the wall. Someone collided in his back but he ignored their protests.  
"Nicky." he whispered, passing his hand on the paper.  
It was an advertisement for a nearby museum, showing a wooden statue of saint Sebastian. He was quite familiar with it: he he had prayed to it two centuries ago.

In his last year in Paris, Booker had gone to church daily. To pray to that statue of the saint with whom he shared a name. It depicted the holy man tied to a stake, pierced with countless arrows, yet showing none of the pain he should have been feeling. Instead, he was expressing a deep pity and empathy towards his tormenters. He had endured through volleys and volleys of arrows, never renouncing his faith. A truly heroic man.

Booker hadn't prayed out of devotion. He had long accepted the fact that he would eventually go to Hell. If the long list of his sins and his collection of faces wasn't proof enough, God had felt it necessary to torment him with restless dreams.

Every single of his night had been plagued with terrifying nightmares. Most were of a woman drowning in the dark. Again and again. It never stopped. He would wake up gasping, and she would be back as soon as he would close his eyes. Some nights, she was angry, banging on the inside of what seemed to be a metal coffin. On others, she was melancholic, and didn't fight as much.

His nights were restless, and Monsieur Monier had thrown him out of his bed more than once because of it. He wondered if that was his penance for having let Rémi drown, years ago. For not having been strong enough to pull him out of the crevice in time.

Some nights, when she was particularly restless, he sang to her. The lullaby his mother used to sing for him. It made things better. The woman seemed calmer when he sang. So he sang.

There were other dreams, rarer ones. Dreams where he would die as well. But in those dreams, there would always be someone accompanying him. Sometimes it was a woman, sometimes one of those men from the south east. But most often, it was a handsome man, shining bright like an angel. His face was the exact copy of that statue from the church, watching over him with worry and tenderness, until he faded away.

At day, Booker would go to church to see the man. At night, he would welcome those dreams, hoping to see this man again so that he could bask in the warmth that radiated from him and soothed his aching heart. Bastien, he called him. His guardian angel protecting him from the woman in the dark waters.  
The man he would later get to know as one Nicolò di Genova.

Booker had later learnt that saint Sebastian had not died from the arrows. He had miraculously recovered, seemingly coming back from the dead to preach his faith again. Was there such a thing as Destiny, and had it already been pushing him towards his curse? 

He stood there, his hand trembling on a cold sheet of paper, unable to take his eyes off of Nicky's face. Now that he knew what he had lost, his heart ached all the more.

Still, he had to endure. Like saint Sebastian had.

One hundred years.

He would be fine.

He had to.


	5. 1812, Paris, Faubourg Saint-Marcel

Booker pressed his back against the grid, watching as the mass of people delivered by the latest metro passed the turnstiles and rushed outside. He rummaged his pockets to find his ticket.  
The grid was cold against his back. Just like it had been over two centuries ago.  
Little did people know that a small precinct had stood there in 1812, right above where the metro station was. Even fewer people knew that Booker had been kept in its cells for a short few days.

It had been a routine mission. A simple one like the hundreds he had conducted for Monsieur Monier so far. The rich widow was sleeping in her room, sated of both drink and carnal pleasures. Booker was in her office, hurrying to copy a few documents he had found in her safe before she woke.

The constables had stormed in. Found his tools. His work. And the widow's body bleeding out on the sheets.  
They didn't believe him when he claimed he hadn't killed her.

Three days later, Monsieur Monier had come to visit him at the precinct. But it was not to free him as he had expected. With him was a teenager, dirty blonde with the face of an angel, and empty, empty blue eyes. 

"Sorry Sébastien, you've grown dull. The lack of sleep perhaps? But don't worry for our little affairs. Gabriel here is already much sharper than you."  
They left, and Booker finally understood who had framed him.  
He also understood who it was he had killed ten years ago, to join Monsieur Monier's circle. 

He hadn't cried. He hadn't begged. He had just been numb.  
He had loved Monsieur Monier with all of his heart. He had thought he was loved in return.  
How naïve.

Booker hadn't moved when the food came and the other prisoners had fought over it. He had just slept, and dreamt of drowning, and woken up to stare into the wall, and slept again.

When the cell door had opened for the last time, a lieutenant of the Grande Armée stood there, his nose crisped as if he had smelled a foul odor. He probably had.

"You're lucky bastards. The emperor is recruiting to march on Russia. You scumbags fight or die here. Choose!"  
Booker never knew what pushed him up on that day, but he had stood up on shaky legs and wobbled towards the light.

The early morning was as bright in 2020 as it had been in 1812.  
Booker covered his eyes as the escalator brought him upstairs. He stumbled a bit as he stepped off, holding onto the ramp, but he didn't fall.  
He cheered loudly, and a passing woman gave him a strange look. He huffed and took another swig of wine. Small victories heh?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deviations from canon:
> 
>   * Booker being caught for forgery and being given the choice to face his punishment or go on the invasion of Russia is canon. The rest is not.
> 

> 
> Historical / scientific notes:
> 
>   * Emperor Napoléon's imperial army was called the Grande Armée (great army), one of the greatest fighting forces ever assembled, numbering 685,000 men in 1812, right before the invasion of Russia. That invasion would end terribly for the French.
> 



	6. 1812, Russia, near the Berezina river

The snow creaked under Booker's feet, crisp and still mostly unsullied. It glinted beautifully under the morning sun. An old man passed him, grumbling against the cold of that morning of February.  
Booker gave him a soft smile.  
"You'll be fine, Russia was much colder!" he told him. And only received a strange look as the man hurried away.

Russia had indeed been cold. If there was to be a perfect example to demonstrate that war wasn't glamorous, it was that march into Hell. If it could have been summed in two words, it would be being cold and hungry. 

Booker shivered as he remembered forcing himself to waddle through the freezing mud left by the 100,000 men before him. His eyes had been focused on Marc's back waddling in front of him, the only back in his collection of faces. He had avoided looking at the frozen bodies abandoned on the sides, and at the gallows from which hung the would be deserters, left there to discourage others. 

When Marc had fallen, dead from exhaustion, he had tossed him to the side.

Booker had noticed the rations diminishing. He knew how many men were walking. And as he had told Monsieur Monier an eternity ago, he knew how to count. He had read enough strategy books to realize that unlike what his fellow soldiers said, the Russians were not cowards shying away from the fight. They were just fighting the right fight, letting Winter pluck their enemies for them. 

The one he knew was a coward, was himself. He wasn't saint Sebastian, he was not a fighter, and had no honor to defend. Dying on a desperate march for the ambitions of a mad man was not in his plans. So he had done what he did best: he had weighed his chances and taken the coward's way out. He had deserted.

And of course, he hadn't even managed cowardice correctly. He had been caught. He had been courtmartialed. He had been condemned. He had been hung, next to the other two that had tried to desert with him.  
They had died neatly, their necks neatly breaking under their own weight. The starved Booker had been too light to have that chance. He had dangled, convulsing, under the other soldiers' empty gazes. Eventually, he had passed out from the lack of oxygen, welcoming death gratefully.

That first death had been beautiful. A relief from his frozen, starved, hurting body. His ever-busy mind finally found peace into oblivion.

Booker shivered, bringing his arms around him as memories buried long ago resurfaced. Perhaps the man was right. It was cold today.

He started to run as the memories of his next deaths came flashing into his mind. He crashed into a parked car. The alarm sounded but he kept running. Someone shouted at him in the distance. He kept running.

He hated it. He hated the sound of his footsteps creaking in the snow. He hated the deceivingly pure white of the snow. The cold. The hunger. The pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deviations from canon:
> 
>   * The chapter follows canon, except for Marc, who was invented.
> 

> 
> Historical / scientific notes:
> 
>   * One of the major battles of Napoléon's march in Russia took place at the Berezina river. The French won the battle but suffered so many losses that even nowadays, "Bérézina" is synonym to "disaster" in French.
> 



	7. 1812, Russia, near the Berezina river

Booker ran past houses and streets, ignoring the people shouting around him. His panicked mind could only register a few things. The cold. The snow. And that noise. The noise of snow creaking under his shoes. It rang loudly in his ears.

He remembered the cold. The lack of air. The desperate gasps, and nothing filling his lungs. Not even water. The burn of frozen skin breaking against the hard rope around his neck and wrists. Ice crystals forming in his eyeballs. His lungs burning atrociously. The endless creaking sound of snow pummeled by the feet of the marching soldiers in front of him. Lips cracking as he had pleaded for them to finally kill him.  
His crushed windpipe had only made horrible gurgling sounds. No one had come for him. No one had even looked at him.

Had it been hours, or just seconds that had felt like hours? It hurt. It hurt so much. He wasn't saint Sebastian, or that woman in the water. He never had the strength to keep fighting. He just wanted it to stop. 

Then, there had been water. And a song. A woman's voice singing his mother's lullaby. It had been gurgled, deformed, and no one but him would have known it was even a song.  
But he had known. He had laughed and sung along in his own gurgles.

Things had blurred together. He didn't remember much. Just the creaking, the white, the cold, the hurt, the song. Again and again. Until he hadn't been able to think. 

And then, there had been warmth. Booker had almost forgotten what warmth was. He had opened his eyes and had seen Paradise.  
A small cabin, a roaring fire, the smell of soup.  
And Bastien. His Bastien. Smiling at him with that same care he had seen in his dreams.

He had raised a trembling hand towards him, and Bastien had taken it in his own hands. They were strong, and warm, so warm. Like a blessing washing over his tattered heart.  
"Rest Sébastien. You're safe now."  
For once, his sleep had been dreamless.

His lungs burned. The snow under his feet creaked and creaked and creaked. He needed to escape. He ran faster. Faster. The creaking grew louder. He put his hands on his ears and sang loudly.  
A door opened on his right. He pushed the woman away from the entrance and stumbled over a child's bicycle. She called his name. He didn't hear her. He ran up the stairs, fumbling for his keys.

The door slammed shut.

His apartment was warm. It was dark. It was safe. Booker slid against the door, falling to the ground, heaving. He reached out for his bottle but couldn't find it. He had lost it in his wild race. 

So instead, he closed his eyes, basked in the warmth. His memories took him back to that cabin in Russia. 

He raised a trembling hand, but this time, no one was there to hold it. Booker gave a broken sob and curled into himself. 

"I'll be fine. I'll be… fine." he kept repeating.  
He didn't believe a word of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deviations from canon:
> 
>   * In the comics, Booker faked being dead for three days and got down from the gallows on his own, after eating a crow to regain some strength. In this version, Joe, Nicky, and Andy found him instead.
> 



	8. 1812, Munich

Booker dragged himself to his bed and huddled under the two weighted comforters he had piled there. The small part of his mind that sounded like Nicky told him to at least take his shoes off. He didn't listen and closed his eyes. Soon enough, it was warm. Almost like that time in the cabin.

That had been a good time. Perhaps the best of his immortal life. He had met Andrea, Josef, and Niclas —the one he had mistaken for his dear Bastien. And Qùynh. The lost one he was dreaming of, the one they were still looking for, even after centuries. They were as tight-knit as a close family. One that bickers and sometimes fights, but that supports and defend its members to the death. Just like his father, mother, and Rémi.

He remembered the first years, that he had spent at their estate in Munich as Sebastiaan Böker, a Dutch cousin to the lady Andrea. They had taught him so much. Andrea had diligently drilled combat skills into him. Josef had taught him everything his education with the village priest and Monsieur Monier had not. And Niclas… Niclas had shared his stories, shown him a place in their little group. He had been kind and understanding. Booker would have followed him to the end of the world. 

Along their conversations, Booker had slowly realized what it meant to be immortal. Centuries of experience had forged their understanding of the world and of mankind into something was sometimes contrary to what Booker had been taught to believe.   
But most importantly, they had the strength to make that understanding true. Booker had once hoped that with time, he would grow to become like them.

This was best exemplified by the pure, blinding love shared by Niclas and Josef through the centuries. Their relationship may have been considered sinful —in both their and his times— but they stood by it. Seeing them, Booker could only wonder why it was sinful in the first place. He had come to question himself, a growing part of him yearning for the soothing embrace of his Bastien. But that was a forever forbidden fruit. So he had remained silent.

Instead, he had delved into bettering himself, focusing on the one thing they were weak at until he excelled at it: technology. Because this time, he wouldn't fail his family.

If only he had known…

Booker rolled himself into his sheets and clamped his eyes shut, trying to remember more of those good times. It had been nice back then. He had been fine. They had all been. Before he had messed up.


	9. 1815, Benediktbeuern

As the hours passed, the shadow of the window frame moved from left to right on the wall. Booker watched it, mesmerized by the small rainbow formed by the crystal he had hung up on one of the tiles. The view reminded him of one of his old experiments. And of the first time he had disobeyed one of the Old Guard's tenets.

"Don't get attached to mortals." Andrea had said. At the time, Booker had already started researching light and its properties. He had been in contact with one Joseph von Fraunhofer, exchanging enthusiastic letters. They had been so close to a breakthrough, and Booker was preparing to go to the Benediktbeuern abbey to meet him.

He had dismissed the immortals' warnings. In his eyes, they were worrying too much. Joseph was a fellow scientist and someone he fully trusted. The only thing that was of interest to them both was their research. What was there to fear?

In the end, there had been something Booker had not accounted for. The inheritance of an heirless lens manufacturer who had heard of their new spectrometer. Booker had just had the time to set up the machine and its central crystal before he had been shot in the back.

He had woken up to the sound of digging. Too shocked to act, he had let Andrea and Niclas dig him up from the grave he had been thrown in. He hazily remembered the sound of people shouting, an intense heat, and the silhouette of Josef illuminated by the flames eating at the abbey.  
Like a vengeful angel.

The ride back to Munich had been silent. Booker had holed up into his room for days, and not even Niclas had managed to pull him out of his silent stupor. It had been Josef who had brought him back. He had torn his door open with Andrea's labrys, brought him in the training area and had beaten him into the ground. 

"Stand up Sebastiaan!" he had yelled again and again. "The bastard fled, you can't let him win. Stand up!"  
So he had stood up. He had thrown all of his despair into that one-sided fight. And after half an hour, he had collapsed in Josef's arms, pouring his heart out into listening ears. 

For the first time since Rémi had died, he had let his tears flow freely.

Booker hugged his pillow, searching for that searing warmth that was Joe's. A sob wracked his body when he didn't find it.  
He held back his tears. There was no one to share them with.  
And it was his fault.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deviations from canon:
> 
>   * The entire chapter is invented.
> 

> 
> Historical / scientific notes:
> 
>   * Joseph von Fraunhofer was a Bavarian physcist. He studied light dispersion at the Benediktbeuern abbey, where he met with the people who would allow him to become an optical lens manufacturer. The quality of his lenses was unparallelled, allowing his research to advance by leaps and bounds. Nowadays, the large German research organization "Fraunhofer Society" is named after him.
> 



End file.
